Happily Ever After
by Alley Cat Sunflower
Summary: "There would be no negotiations, no attempts to fix the cracks in their love, because it was broken from the start." Even though things didn't work out as planned, Steven can't get Cynthia out of his mind. Is it wishful thinking to believe that she feels the same way? Pre-ORAS/DPPt. I do not own Pokémon or the cover art!


They say time heals all wounds—but Steven has never been patient.

It's been half a year, at least; he's lost track at this point, forcing himself to forget the date of his final night with Cynthia. But his heart still aches; the bittersweet taste of her lips still lingers on his tongue in a phantom, apologetic kiss. (Perhaps what hurts most is that there's no single person he can blame.)

He still remembers how Cynthia was sprawled on the bed like sunshine, all pale skin and golden hair, the sheets disheveled beneath her and the pillows in disarray—a testament to their mutual passion. But then she frowned and stretched and sighed, "I can't live two lives anymore," and Steven knew in that moment that their fragile togetherness was at an end.

There would be no negotiations, no attempts to fix the cracks in their love, because it was broken from the start. They would simply make as clean a break as the media would allow, and go their separate ways. And so Cynthia kissed Steven goodbye, her breath a meaningless whisper in his ear, her steel-gray eyes sorrowful but tearless—and she was gone.

Gone, because there was always too much publicity in one place. Two regional Champions cannot have a peaceful romance, especially not two prodigies such as Steven Stone and Cynthia Shirona. Reporters tracked them like wild Pokémon; some of the less scrupulous ones even resorted to eavesdropping, and created artificial drama when they inevitably misinterpreted something.

It's enough to make Steven stop paying attention to the news.

And, being Champions, they can't escape from one another even after they've split apart. Steven must bear the increasing weight of League conventions as best he can, as must Cynthia. They endure endless prodding questions about one another, dodging them where possible, and exchange a few mandatory words through painful smiles.

Then it's finally, _finally_ over for another month or so, and Steven can go back to shoving rocks into the hole in his heart. The sooner someone defeats him and lifts this curse, the better—but he can't bring himself to throw a match. It's unfair to give his country a weak Champion simply because Steven himself has a weak heart. (He wonders, more often than he'd care to admit, whether Cynthia feels the same way.)

Steven has few confidants in the matter of his slow-healing wounds, and even fewer whom he would call friends. In fact, the only one he can think of offhand who fills both categories is Wallace.

"I believe that, in situations such as these, one usually says 'there are plenty of fish in the sea'," he intones with a wry smile, and Steven mirrors his expression automatically; neither of them believe it for a minute. "You know better than anyone that you can have whichever woman—or man," he adds, "you want."

"I don't _want_ anyone," mutters Steven, gazing into the water, and several hours later repeats the sentence under his breath as he stands before the pool in front of the Sinnoh Pokémon League—staring down the reflection of the setting sun. Lost in thought, he can almost imagine Wallace's reflection next to his own. (Or perhaps Cynthia's.)

No—Cynthia's reflection is not in his head. Steven jumps, looking up to find her standing next to him, and she turns her head to gaze up at him with those beautiful gray eyes. "I have to go back inside before they catch up to me," she says softly, but he barely hears the words for drinking in her appearance—undisturbed, for the moment, by the relentless camera flashes and microphones.

"I just thought I'd tell you that…" Cynthia trails off, hesitating, and Steven is momentarily afraid. Her countenance has always been serious, but rarely this grave. "I have a boyfriend," she finishes, and Steven's heart—rubbed raw with grief—_stops_. "So you have time to decide how you feel about it, before they start asking you questions."

It's a long time before Steven can respond, but she waits for him to speak—more cruel than kind, though he likes to think Cynthia never hurts him intentionally. "Thank you," he says automatically, his mouth dry, and she dips her head, though her eyes remain trained on his before she blinks, dropping her gaze, and slowly turns away.

Steven's hand moves without his accord and grasps Cynthia's wrist, and electricity shoots through him as she tenses beneath his touch, turning to face him. "Steven?" she gasps, and her voice is so deliciously breathless that he feels his senses sharpening at the familiar sound of his name on her tongue.

He swallows. "Cynthia," replies Steven, all too aware that his hand is trembling, and her eyes flick to her wrist curiously before darting back up to his own. "Am I… so easily replaced?" he asks finally, barely getting the words out before his throat tightens painfully.

Cynthia only sighs, light and lingering like a vernal breeze. "Don't make me say it," she murmurs, her slender fingers prying his hand away from her arm. "Please, Steven. I told you, I can't live two lives. Even if the one I chose is a lie… I have to stay true to it." She looks him in the eye, and he almost flinches at her forceful gentleness. "Do you understand?"

"…No," whispers Steven, letting his arm fall limply to his side. This shouldn't be more painful than their initial separation; he should be happy that she's found someone else. He shouldn't feel so inexplicably crushed beneath the burden of knowledge that _she has moved on_. "I don't."

She shakes her head and turns away again, but glances over her shoulder as she walks. "Come inside when you're ready to act for the cameras," she says matter-of-factly, and Steven stares after her. "We're still waiting for Lance, so you have a little bit of time."

But no amount of time in the world can prepare him for the usual publicity, and though Steven is well aware there will be speculation about why the Champion of Hoenn looks so solemn and whether that forecasts certain doom for his country, he simply can't bring himself to pretend that his heart still beats the way it should.

After several agonizing hours, it's finally, _finally _over. Narrowly dodging the press, Steven strides along the corridors, wanting nothing more than to be home and in the company of his stones—but, upon exiting the building, he almost collides with a man in a suit and a fedora waiting outside.

The stranger lifts a hand to his hat in salutation. "Good evening," he says, thin gold necklace glittering in the moonlight, and Steven narrows his eyes. To loiter around the League is… unusual, to say the least. "Is something wrong?" he continues after a long silence, tilting his head slightly and crossing his arms. "I get a lot of stares, but hardly anyone actually looks at me."

Steven barely bites back an annoyed retort and instead sighs, shaking his head. "It's nothing. I'm sorry," he mutters, starting to turn his head away, but then Cynthia slips out the door and he freezes.

"O-oh," she says, silver eyes wide, and it's one of the only times Steven has heard her falter: both he and the stranger turn to look over at her. "You two… know each other?" she adds, sounding somewhere between suspicious and surprised.

"Know each other?" frowns Steven, as the man explains, "We just met."

"…Ah," remarks Cynthia faintly, apparently at a loss for words, and sways back and forth slightly. "Steven, this is Riley. Riley… Steven."

Steven extends his hand, bemused, and Riley shakes it briefly, lightly, before leaning against the wall again—and Steven realizes suddenly, as Cynthia glances with uncharacteristic awkwardness between the two of them, that _this _is her new lover. Tall, dark, and handsome: a man of little national importance, and evidently mysterious enough to offer her that sweet anonymity.

"I see," says Steven, looking Riley up and down with new eyes. It would be easiest to hate him, or even simply to be envious, but instead, he feels only a cold sort of emptiness in his heart, an unhappy certainty: Riley will make Cynthia happier than Steven ever did.

He looks up at her to find her countenance worried, but quickly wrenches his gaze away. She is no longer his to observe, after all. "Look after her," he manages quietly, searching Riley's dark eyes. (Though, if he knows Cynthia, she'll be the one looking after _him_.)

"I will," responds Riley, with soft determination. "I promise."

Steven nods shortly, throat smarting; he has no real choice but to believe him, and trust in Cynthia's choice. He meets her gray and guarded gaze once more, desperately studying her every moonlit feature one last time, and swallows three instinctive and inconvenient words before bowing his head and walking away.

After all, he thinks ruefully, Wallace did once warn him that not all stories have a _happily ever after_; what some want, more than anything, is their _once upon a time_.


End file.
